Unwrapped Part One
I was a guy of four major needs.
My junior year of high school, I signed up to take a psychology class. The seniors on the basketball team at the time all said it was a much better option than splintered fingers in woodworking, so I went for it. The teacher was my assistant coach, Doug Romano, and by far the most popular faculty member at East High, apart from my dad of course. He was kind of a push over -thanks to my newly crowned captain status, it was easier to slide assignments and persuade my way to extend deadlines, though that was only in the case of emergencies. Honestly, I was a decent and trustworthy student; it was enough to get me by and managed to barely skim the bottom of the honor roll. But my lack of academic progress isn’t really my point.
Between brief mid-day naps and doodling mustaches on Freud’s face during fifth period, I managed to filter through some of what he was lecturing. I remember one specific day -about a week before winter break when I was drunk on the daydreams of tearing up the slopes in Colorado on my much needed vacation. We were discussing the different segments and functions of the brain for what seemed like the billionth time. I was dressed clad in my white away warm ups and could hear the obnoxious sighs of the girls scattered around the room. It made me blush -I wasn’t a cocky jack ass as I may have been stereotyped by other schools. To be honest, I sort of thought I had a big mouth and my legs were too skinny for my toned torso.
That specific day, Romano was jumping exuberantly around the front of the room with a cheesy smile on his face to keep the class entertained in a boring subject. We were all distracted by the game that evening at the fact that we would begin the sleep/dreams unit that was so famous once returned from break. His black curls clung tightly to his head as he continued to doodle the scribble of a brain on the whiteboard with multiple hues of markers. My eyelids were fighting to close and I fantasized over the championship that would occur two weeks after break. Little did I know at the time that my priorities would change drastically after a karaoke session in a winter wonderland.
Anyways, what I do remember about that period was the mention of a certain function that immediately caught my attention. His purple marker was stabbing at the lower brain, covering just above the poorly drawn brain stem and explained that this was not where higher thinking was present.
“The hypothalamus,” Romano explained with his immature smirk over his leather skin, “is responsible for the four ‘fs. Without it -just like the rest of the lower brain- we would die.”
A girl seated in the front row with big brown eyes and frazzled red hair tilted her head with curiosity like he was one of her problems on the academic decathlon team, “What are the four ‘f’s? Is that going to be on the AP test?” She quickly scurried to her note taking skills.
Chuckling, Romano shrugged, “It’s a memory technique. Something you’ll learn in chapter eight. And the four ‘f’s are easy: Food, fight, flight and… sexual reproduction.”
Someone on the football team snorted and shot me a look of amusement, muttering “fuck” as if I had never heard the word sex before, let alone receive a few mediocre hand jobs from my brief “relationships” with cheerleaders.
I guess it was at that moment that it dawned upon me that my hypothalamus was wrong on what exactly was my personal “four fs”. Two of them were sort of useless -I was too much of a good guy to cause riffs with others to induce fist fights. Therefore, because I was never placed in more daring situations than whether I should take a shot from the key or drive in for a lay up, the flight was pointless too. I guess I replaced these with two others that were so dear to my heart: basketball and singing.
For some bizarre reason, these four necessities had managed to surface on December 25th at least once in my seventeen years of existence.
The former was my first love, no matter the given situation or the mood I was in, basketball was what I lived for. When I was seven years old, I came springing down the stairs at five-thirty Christmas morning in my batman pajamas. Hours later I was scolded for making such a ruckus so early, but to me it didn’t matter. My cyan eyes -my now girlfriend tells me she constantly gets lost in them, so I figure they’re my best feature, even if she also comments the perfection of my abnormally built abs as well- glittered with delight and the hues of the illuminated evergreen when I took hold of the scattered presents danced in the ocean waves. Finally, my parents stirred from their slumber and snapped pictures as I tore apart the brightly wrapped gifts. I remember the surge in my heart when I lifted the two tickets to the University of Albuquerque basketball game. My dad would take me, and it would only heighten my obsession with two hoops and an orange sphere.
The second need surfaced slightly more complicated on Christmas. Or, around Christmas would be a better word. I have always performed to my shower head with the latest rap from Lil Wayne or John Mayor’s ballad, but that was my extent of musical experience. My mom used to sing Christmas carols under her breath while baking. She wasn’t a particularly good singer, but there was something about her flat voice that reminded me of gooey chocolate chip cookies. That love was sort of unveiled when we finally made it to Colorado. New Years Eve, I sang this cheesy song with this hot book worm that just so happened to move to Albuquerque the next week and opened my eyes to how much I truly did love the arts. My friends gave no hesitation to tease me endlessly of my girly love or the way I was completely and utterly whipped by my girlfriend -but then again I was the one making out with her on Saturday nights when they were stuck playing Halo.
My third need, which is one of the original from the hypothalamus, is easy: Food. Every Christmas, my dad’s side of the family caravanned over to our house would mountainous plates of cookies that threatened to avalanche to the ground. Then, after exchanging Secret Santa’s that would most likely be returned the following morning and consuming ourselves in a football game, we’d all sit down at the living room table, say grace, and devour turkey sandwiches like Thanksgiving. I’d crash with a giant stomach that night, and rip through the leftovers the following morning.
However, the final need from the hypothalamus was never satisfied on Christmas. While younger and immature, my hormones had not been released yet; therefore I wasn’t even sure what sex was and would not receive the satisfaction the holy day. As I grew older and my dick grew thicker, my desire and hunger also exploded into a physical need. I was pretty sure that my mom wasn’t going to stuff my stockings with condoms and lubricant though, so capturing this extremity on Christmas was fairly difficult.
That was, until my pleads and prayers were granted on a particularly boring evening my seventeenth Christmas. Looking back on that day, I realize I was completely and utterly stupid, immature, and horny. Now, if the opportunity would have presented itself, I would have waved my hand and realized I had all the time in the world with her. But that night -those kisses and touches and thrusts and groans were all driven by my hypothalamus. By that need.
And it all started with a simple cell phone.
I’m fucking bored
My thumb smashed against the send button before a slammed my phone closed with a violent tremor. The hazy glow of my background picture on illuminated a blue hue over my skin as I shoved it aggressively back into my jean pockets. Feet bare of all but socks, they tapped impatiently against the hardwood of the bathroom floor. Slamming my head against the wall in frustration, my brain sloshed around my skull, for it had melted into pure glop in the six hours since they marched through the door.
I sighed and stared blankly into the blackness that surrounded me. To be perfectly honest, I sort of felt like a pouting girl with my ass cemented to the toilet seat. The cinnamon scented candle that flickered in the corner was much too heavy and I almost choked on the waft. Running my hands down my face, I groaned at the friendly chatter developing from my aunts and screams from my baby cousins that bounced from outside the door. The squeals were so ungodly annoying I was debating whether or not I wanted to chuck a basketball at their faces.
Was I being overly dramatic and moody on Christmas? Sure. But it had been an impossibly long week. My legs were run into the ground after the hours upon hours of practice my dad had scheduled for us. I was tired -physically and mentally exhausted and completely filled with ‘xs and ‘os -plays that would be useless to me after my last championship against West High in the next few weeks. Though in chipper attitudes, my teachers also sent no mercy the week before winter break started. Thank God for my genius of a girlfriend to save me from the ultimate senioritis and remind me daily that I still hadn’t picked a college yet. I cursed myself for not being super-brain and be able to attend Stanford with her.
The phone in my pocket buzzed simultaneously with my staggered heart. I removed it from the depths of my pocket once again to view the white little envelope that informed me I had an awaiting text message. Eagerly, and placed one hand to steady my head to concentrate and drown out the sound of my seven year old cousin screaming about how she didn’t like beach Barbie and wanted doctor Barbie.
Hang in there wildcat : ) they’ll b gone soon
I missed her. I know it sounded pathetic and stupid, but I really truly missed her. The past week and a half and I had been consumed with so much basketball that I didn’t even have time to stop by for a quick kiss or even ice cream. Honestly, we hadn’t actually hung out in three weeks and apart from homeroom, I never saw her in class. Basketball owned my soul, but she owned my heart. There was always going to be a fight between them.
I wish u were here. Ur family too
“Troy?”
Just as I finished typing, there was a soft rap on the bathroom door. Under my breath, I cursed a harsh profanity and finally unglued my butt to the porcelain. “Yeah?” I called back, struggling with my underlying bitterness. Through the darkness, I glanced in the mirror to see my sandy brown shag was slightly array and considered bed head. When finally realizing my appearance wasn’t going to hide my distaste for family get-togethers, I reached for the door and squinted into the light to see my mother standing halo before me.
Her eyebrows, dark to match her hair, rose with bemusement, “I just wanted to be sure you were okay,” her warm eyes scrutinized over my body, “you’ve been in there for fifteen minutes.”
My phone exploded again and I tried to awkwardly maneuver my hand so my pants wouldn’t look like they were spazzing, “I think it was the turkey.”
She rolled her eyes, clearly not buying my pathetic lie, “Come be social. It’s good for you.”
No, it wasn’t. But I obeyed her demands and dragged my feet as we reached the living room. My grandparents smiled brightly as I entered -I was the oldest, therefore the favorite of the Bolton family. I guess it sort of helped that I was famous for my basketball status despite my attempts to be an individual and not cave to my father’s tunnel vision. He was seated beside the fire, which I thought was pointless since it was forty-five degrees out. Albuquerque never received snow, but I guess it was to add to the Christmas spirit.
My two aunts were on the floor with my fourteen, twelve, and ten year old cousins playing Spoons. Seated in the squishy chairs beside each other were my grandparents and they’re naïve looks towards me. My mom joined my father at the fireplace, my other two uncles were on the couch I had just plopped on, and my five year old cousin was arguing with his six year old sister of whether Legos or Polly Pockets were a better gift.
I pulled out my phone again and smiled at the words on the screen.
I miss u
Blowing out of my mouth in pure distress, I let the communication device fall on my stomach and turned blankly to the TV. The Arizona Cardinals were going head to head with the Saint Louis Rams. There was nothing wrong with football -besides the fact that it was an excuse for dudes to touch each other and wear tight ass pants. I liked it, honestly, Chad and I played every so often on the weekends, but it wasn’t really my thing. Maybe if my sport didn’t consume my life, then I might have tried out for the Wildcats. But for now, I was stuck watching something stupid while waiting impatiently for these people to just leave.
“So Troy,” My uncle, who was just as pathetically obsessed with basketball as well, turned to me with cookie crumbs decorating his face. I tried not to groan that someone was actually talking to me, “how many scouts have come for you?”
I suddenly wished Gabriella was here. She would have giggled into my shoulder and squeezed my hand, reminding me that I’m still human instead of some basketball slave. Shrugging, I trained my eyes on the TV to see that rounds of commercials began, “I don’t know… a few…”
“Troy’s already for his Redhawks unif…”
Whatever assumption about my future my Dad cut in after that was lost to me. The image upon the screen suddenly gave me so much satisfaction that I thought I would have an early heart attack. It was quite simple, a woman stretched across the bed in jade and crimson lingerie. There was some flash of skin on skin action and some present tied in a bow. A Victoria’s Secret Angel popped up with her sultry smile and whispered something along the lines of “Merry Christmas”. My Aunt caught a wary glance to her husband that the children shouldn’t be exposed to this, but the cousins continued to bicker and whine as though there was nothing out of the ordinary. All except me.
The tightening of my jeans had nothing to do with the slutty model on the screen. It did, however, have everything to do with the sudden erotic images that flashed across my brain of another woman. My breath hitched when I suddenly imagined her breath on my neck, her heart hammering against her bare breast, and the final sung of my name. I could blame, or thank, the exploitation of women in this commercial, but it was only a matter of time before my boredom drew to sexual fantasies.
Maybe it was my desire to see her. Maybe it was my brain melting to mush over the lack of stimulation with my family. Maybe it was just because I was a seventeen year old boy who talked through his dick. Whatever the cause, I suddenly found myself typing wildly on my phone like I was hypnotized. Maybe I was.
What do ur panties look like?
As soon as I sent it, I regretted it. My eyes widened with horror as the “Message Sent” box popped up. Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. She was going to kill me. Oh fuck I screwed up now.
The number of times we performed full blown sex could be counted on my hands. Despite the fact that she was anything but innocent in her caressing hand jobs and cosmic blow jobs, Gabriella Montez was still Gabriella Montez. She was coy when it came to her sexuality -in general she was shy when first met. I wasn’t going to push her either, that wasn’t who I was. But I realized that I just royally fucked up. I put her in a position -in front of the entire Latina Montez family I might add- that she hated. Sex wasn’t taboo for us, but she still wasn’t comfortable enough with her body to strip off those oh-so-teasing dresses and ride me wildly. It was new, slightly scary, daunting, with a sprinkle of mind blowing on top.
Frantically, I hurried to save myself with some pathetic apology about how one of my immature cousins stole my phone. However, instead I was greeted with another envelope on the screen. My heart slammed to a stop and I suddenly knew that the end of my life had just come. Sorry Mom, I was about to die on your couch. I winced before pressing the button that would open my fate and prayed to some god that maybe she’d have mercy.
That was, until my dick almost came right on the spot at the response.
Emerald lace thong. They’d look better if u took them off ; )
Sweet Jesus…
Who stole my girlfriend? That response wasn’t her - it couldn’t be her. And yet, the underwear she described was worn the first time I fingered her after our reunion at the Lava Spring’s talent show.
My stomach tightened in a clenched in a tangle of desires and fantasies. Nervously, I lifted my head to pan my eyes side to side -just to be sure that no adult was lingering over my shoulder. Aunts and uncles were still conversing; my grandparents were still smiling at the busily playing cousins and my parents had their eyes trained on the game. I didn’t want to lose the sexual tension that was traveling through the phone line, but I wanted to be sure this wasn’t some cruel trick Chad was playing. I needed to know it was her.
Who r u and what have u done with my gf?
I barely had time to set my phone down before it buzzed again.
I miss u and been thinking a lot about…u
I chewed on my tongue so hard that I suddenly had the taste of copper in my mouth from blood. So maybe it was her. My hands were shaking in the dimness of the living room. The family would be leaving shortly, but it wasn’t soon enough. My male anatomy starting to tent against my jeans -I knew I had to get out of here while children and my relatives were present. However, my fingers drifted faster than my brain.
Yea? About what exactly? ; )
“Troy!” Someone hissed and I was momentarily stunned that anyone else was in this universe besides Gabriella. After the initial shock wore off, I glanced over at the fire place to meet my mother’s snake eyes -a ruby glow behind her growled in a fierce expression. “Phone, away.”
Yeah. Over my dead body.
A strategically placed the phone onto my crotch just on the off chance that someone noticed my zipper had rose all too high. Gritting my teeth, I tried my absolute hardest -no pun intended - to creatively come up with a way to continue this smoldering conversation that was steaming between us. It was soon very obvious that the placement of my cell was idiotic -it shivered again sending pleasuring vibrations to ripple down my shaft and through my balls. I couldn’t help my crystal eyes to roll into the back of my head or the muffled groan that whistled through my teeth.
“Troy? Is everything alright?” My grandma sweetly asked, concern wrinkled over her face. Her eyes were a soft periwinkle against her paled skin.
My breath almost came in quick spasms, “I’m… I’m fine. I just… bathroom…”
I didn’t wait to see the response of the room. Quickly, my socks slid as I almost crashed into the blackened hallway once again. Throwing the bathroom door ajar, I dropped to my knees and huddled over the now glow that reflected in the mirror before me. The candle continued to flicker as before.
Ur eyes on mine. Ur tongue in me
Jesus. We had texted dirty before, but nothing this graphic. She wanted me dead. There was no other explanation for this insanity.
I’m so fucking hard for u
I wanted her. More than the ten speed bike when I was nine, than the laptop donated to me for my unknown college experience next year, even more than my desire to continue my musical career. I needed to see her -more than just some saucy hook up. The absence of her had proven harder than me than I thought. Her sweet giggle filled my ears, the curve of her hand in mine, the song of her breath... I wanted all of it.
My phone rang on the floor again. I practically dove for it.
I want u to unwrap one more… thing this xmas
That was all it took. I couldn’t wait until the morning to see her. Hell, I didn’t think I was going to be able to make another hour unless I caressed her skin. Internal combustion was on the brink of exposure. It was at that moment, with my body pathetically curled on its knees that I realized I had to see her. That I was going to see her, feel her, touch her, and taste her. There were no options, no excuses, no ways I could opt out of this. It thus commenced Operation: Unwrapped. Suck that Victoria, Gabriella had better tits than you -and they’re not even plastic.
“Troy!” The irritated shrill of my mother furious scold filled the emptiness of the bathroom. Frantically, I shoved my cell into my pocket and spun around doe-eyed. Simultaneously, my mom flicked on the light with a scowl on her face. My grandma, on the other hand, was staring at me with pure concern. I felt guilty for having a throbbing boner in front of her. Thank god for the fly of my jeans to hide the evidence, “What is going on?!”
“Sweetheart!” she pushed past my purely irritated mom and slapped her hand upon my forehead like a pancake, “You’re as white as a ghost!”
I guess in a way I was lucky I was so desperate to leave. Shifting my eyes to take in the reflection staring back at me, I realized I did look physically sick. My face looked about the color like that one dude from that one dumb movie about vampires Gabriella forced me to watch. Eyes frosty, I turned back to my relative and awkwardly shifted my gaze, trying to avoid her from getting to close.
My mom seemed less impressed when she crossed her arms and cocked her eyebrows, “You were fine at diner.”
“I told you it was the turkey.” I grumbled while my grandmother’s thin eyebrows furrowed with distress. I was growing antsy and desperate to find a way out of this house.
“Lucille, I think he needs to get some rest.”
And I just found my way.
Her jaw unhinged and for a brief moment, I thought it was going to fall off. My heart and my declining erection suddenly sprung into an uneven beat of a fiesta. I tried my very hardest not to smirk triumphantly at my mother, but couldn’t help the cocky grin that curled on my lips, “You’ve got to be kidding me…”
“Oh hush Lucy,” my dad’s mother waved and gently grabbed my bicep to guide me out of the claustrophobic bathroom. Flabbergasted, my mom glared at me with hounding eyes as my grandma ushered me towards the stairs, “get some rest alright? We’ll still be here in the morning.” She reminded of how my grandparents voyaged all the way from Phoenix and traditionally stayed the night.
“Thanks Grandma.” I feigned the strained sound of my voice. She swiftly kissed my cheek -I was careful not to get too close to her while I still had my problem - and then turned around to watch my mother as I slowly ascended the stairs.
I felt a hot slap against my wrist before I actually realized my mother had stopped me. The protection of my relative had disappeared back in the family room, and now it was just me and the woman who gave me birth. We didn’t utter a word for a long moment and the sound of laughter from the Bolton family up roared in the distance. Her eyes searched mine with a hunt for truth.
“Troy Alexander…” She boldly started.
I held up my hand to stop her though, ceruleans firing with a plead, “Mama, please...” I begged with every inch of persuasion I had. My hands were shaking and my cock was throbbing. I knew it wasn’t going to be much longer until I was doubled over in physical pain, however I could not voice my agony. She looked as though she was struggling with something as her eyebrows furrowed together.
Never will I discover what the reasoning was, but finally, she sighed and allowed a tiny hint of a bemused twinkle in her eyes, “I’m coming to check on you at eleven-thirty. If you’re playing Xbox at Chad’s at that time, you will be grounded until college.”
Fuck me dead, was this really happening? Was my mom practically giving me permission to leave the house -as long as she didn’t catch me? My heart, my brain, and my penis all erupted in pure anticipation. Unable to control myself, my eyes engorged in shock and my breath rattled with desperation. “You… I… what?!” My voice trembled as I spoke.
Her eyes narrowed into snakes once again, “I’ll be up at eleven thirty.”
With that, she spun around without a second glance and marched back into the living room. Dizziness suddenly swept over me like a gust of a hurricane. The room spun rapidly -I had to grip the banister to steady myself from crashing to the floor. Finally, my vision once again returned and a lump balled in my throat. This was it. I was freed. A rush of triumph surged through my veins, which only mixed my testosterone and adrenaline in a chemical reaction that yielded into a fiery passion. A need. A want. A desire.
Silently, I tip toed down the second half of the white steps once again with a smirk on my face.
Operation: Unwrapped was once again a go.